To Validate the Truth of Love

Puzzle pieces heavy to touch
Shall Shatter glasses upon descent

And Fill the picture, for life cannot take
Guess work follies and
Edgar pitted, cherry blossom advertising,
Blue marionetteer knotted strings
Leech their puppets of Gilded burrows


Smile and Touch scared skin yet loved
Seeded ammo roulette player
Plant stock and grow another
To surrender the truth of love

Absinthe Makes the Heart grow Fonder

This is the first of a series of 'Visual Poems' that have been inspired by the need to break out of the realm of conventional left to right word arrangement. Words can bequeath an idea, they have the ability to challenge thought and invoke understanding, awareness and knowledge of truth and beauty to all who are exposed to them. It is on the reader to tap into that energy. This is an exposition in the field of word and picture provocations. As words are beautiful, they should be gloried and empowered to the fringes of human capacity! Here, in this visual poem, I challenge you to take these words to the edge of your understanding, and find something about yourself as well as the piece in front of you.

The Politics of Heartbreak

In bed without a disguise

My skin hangs loosely from my cauterized head, draping,
I unzip it and slip contemplatively into my bed.

The process of getting to know the human race is humbling
And I replay the day…

Instrumental Tongue, Tell The Tale To Dance To

The tongues of creation, sang a melody to dance to.
He was named Lyric to clear throat, and spit us from his lips
For the last time, ‘til we meet again, we fly
It is beautied wind that carries us to our destination,
It is Earth mother that opens her bosom to soften our descent into what is fated and full.
Her instincts swell her and we now inhale in a mirrored mocking of worship
Sister moon ebbed her waters and we then exhale to mimic the waving retreat
It is Wings break off in the landing, while we skid in a torrent of plumage to our sold out destinations They flew into Clouds were made this day, and man looked up and saw birds and bunnies and revolution

That day, a long time ago, we had fetted hands, fingers stretched to another and grasped for a sign that we feel now, and forever young and crawling we bobbed our heads to the beat of mother’s bosom. That heart ticked away slowly and calculated to a melody of our love Beat beat beat, said her bosom, and we knocked it back, beat beat.

Instrumental tongue sang out to Lyric’s strained cords,
A harmony Fell even unto the ears of the deaf, the dumb Danced and the dead now Trembled in righteous anticipation.
Bulls were Cast in gold and finned twin fish in silver, and Quartz Gods Settled their ass cheeks into alters while Instrumental Tongue Talked to us.
Listening follied voodoos Pricked up their ears and Picked up their feet, paraded in the sands of lovers
While Bedded children, full and trembled sang along Stravinsky’s foul notes,
While Lullibied beasts of night time reign bequeathed the throne to those in gloried rays,
He called out to antagonized widowed weepers, bandaged with ropes, in a fevered splendor, do you not dance?
Filling the streets with chameleon love struck lovers,
A pulse Rang throughout, omnipotent and splendid, vibrating the strings between us and between us,
While he called out to Creole tongued musicians brass lipped and sun burnt
They Smiled in the fleeting recognition of him, and inspired all, then with their song
The Rasti’s pot stained fingers snapped to the beat of mother’s bosom
While Monocled catholic children, kneeled and Pitied the yogis and chai drinkers while They smiled in recognition
tranny hookers pulled on pumps and clicked their heels to the beat
While peg legged pirates stubbed their toes on the isles left behind, while the yacht men paraded breadcrumbs of nickel and gold.

Balances were lost on our day of plum. The balance was there before lyric called out the name of you and me and Faeder Ure, my grandfather’s grandfather and yours
That balance was there before the beat beat of mother’s bosom and Yo- tongues creation song, that balance was there and that balance still Is. Open your ears and see that syllable called om. Open your eyes and hear the silence between the beat beat beat.
Instrumental tongue does not ask why we dance only of us that we do
Through the shivers of a fevered Earth mother, feel that temperature rise, to cure, and mollify a scale of pebbled clinkin’ happenings
Know that the beat beat will be bounced back, and we will live on through the shrill trill of earthquakes and quivers.
Know that we will pick up the pieces of our alters that crumbled like stale bread.
Know that we will evolve and revolve back to the embedded hibernation of conscious realization taking stock in nothing at all.
Know that the beat beat of her bosom will carry us all,
Know that we know all when we were young, and filled our heads with the judgments of humanity. Know that we can once again smile in the ebbing waters and beautied wind,

Know that we will once again take airs and be spoon fed back to heaven.

For Helen

Grass blades worship throne
An artist taking stock in faces
Of blank fettlings
Tapping pens to rhythms
Stravinsky should draw, Green.


Top hat vibrated by buzzes
Through a hedged Head.
Fetting art for fetted art

Eye drop, tea tipped

Tim Burton soliloques
On a cotton filled summer eve.

Cronos should be jealous
'Cause Time stopped today

Untitled [Ethereal Efficacy]

Ethereal Efficacy
Engineered in airs
Entwine around everyone

White sunglasses

White sunglasses like a bug
Trace the tanlines on blistered
Dark skin. Strutting in
his heavy, holey coats that
Man takes stock of whats around.

The Fabulous Life of Me

The line between art and pornography has always been a fleeting one to place. Arguments over what is art and what is pornography began when Adam took a bite of that delicious fruit for which we all yearn. I enjoy obscuring that line a little more in my work. This piece in particular represents the form of passion, desire and truth in its natural form, while paying tribute to the recognition of the distorted image we portray for others. We all like to swim in the grays of controversy, blindly searching for the answers, but not all of us let the world know.

Excerpt from 'Captive' performed by Nate Zeigler

I rake the Book of Words
to find one to bring to you
To fold it up in origami
A swan to fly and follow you
After I let you go
On that napkin I wrote my soul
And let it go for you
I am nothing now
Alone in those walls I built for you
And Pray I never find
A napkin stamped
'Return to sender'

I am waiting

I am waiting

Neon Capitalist

Naked, Pussy, glass-eyed
And dancing woman
Rocking soft body in tune
A gaze past the faces of men into a shower of
Crinkled ones
And she smiled slightly in the neon light.

Surgery of an Ex-Lover

Prep for the knife now
Take will, and stock, and hedge here
Cut across the heart.

Accidental Splendor

Our Father,
Tell me what to call a shrouded grin, for my words fail me in accidental splendor.
With clouded eyes cast down upon our follies, I feel the chuckles rocking you heavily;
I seek solidarity in my staving heart, and in my soliloquy I confess a readied reluctance for retribution.
The kind has given much attention to my masonry, and brick by brick I rebuild; a migrant filing from oxidized modern mules, put to plow til sweated brow and caliced hand take.
Mortar mollifies you know, I know you know when I hear that devious chuckle bellowing through my veins, that the wrecking ball may strike again.
Rephrase, stumble over my tongue, I ask again, Our Father, what to call a shrouded grin.
A parafoil perhaps, the nongrid, parachute-like nylon airfoil of ribbed or cellualr construction, constricting my descent into turbulent terratory.
Or even an ewer, a now priceless, now useless piece of pottery from a time no one remembers, but stories stave te philosophy of ritual propriety, and no one will ever forget it was once celebrated to contain
Emptiness.
Maybe the word is wahine, riding a wave and flowing on her own celebrated vesselature.
Painted Warhol prose on bathroom stalls pre-emt me to possibility of
Perfume, aromatic tangebility of him, olfactory lingerings beyond Apollo's reign.
Cupido, the thirst from staredowns with cylanders filled with shallow waters.
Maybe the word follows 'L'
Leeway. Ledger. Leg-of-mutton. Launder.
Loon. Locomotive. Legalist. Lavender.
Legato. Latino. Lather. Lair.
Launch. Laudanum. Laugh. Lecture.
Loin. Logical. Leatherback turtle.
But Father, Our Father
I just want to want him,
Perhaps, maybe, just maybe, the word is
Hm.

Untitled [What King Should Be Revered]

What king should be revered!

Patchwork grins on that park bench,

A dolman to his liking.

He, clad in tattered robes

Of indigo and deep purple and

Crown donned with shining thorns,

Is worshipped by clean cheeks,

And passersby send

gifts of averted eyes.

Forgotten Black Woman

Chrysanthemum stitched dress

Warm color contrasting cool skin

Blue-black and swishing, she rocks,

Swinging arms.

Ardent tremors take over

That soft body. Dirt boulevard

Uninvitedly kisses her cheek.

Shackled and steeled, face

Printed and plowed; pedal

After pedal passed by her eye and

Salted water met that street.

Untitled [Blue hued dew comes through when I seek you]

Blue hued dew comes through when I seek you,
And shine a ring of thorns upon your crown.
Stumbling quietly into your lair,
I bring the Ancient with an accidental purpose
To meet an indifferent eye.

Organic Nucleus

You got all bezoomnied and berzerkified when I cut you off from my razzmatazz,
and I said ain’t that the jazz. ‘n You, ain’t that some shit. And will we ever end up together?
And you talk of lifetimes coupled and fêted hands, of the organic nucleus that is once and forever called love.
Of the man cherry blossoms floating on coke, winded and blundering about a gay bar searching for their new toy of a lifetime.
Of the soliloquies invested to a term of endearing companionship, riddled with irony and bittersweet background music playing along.
Of clamoring imagery that sets the head on a buzz of unrelinquished infatuation, on a high so high, I get dizzy and spin out of my walls.
Of the perpetual duality of grins and grim losses of that thing, that is once and forever called love.
Of the mountain peaks, rock climbers call to and coddle and cuddle and cum on its summit.
Of the sewers station, spewing sinister shit, all over the coupled fingers, tied in a torrent of tempests and featureless awe.
Of the climb, rock tripping, toe tumbling and breathy warm ascents.
Of the scattered duels dooming one to a dolmen in Chicago.
Of the city of love, Paris, France, the enchanté the excuse of language-less looks stolen and smiles shared.
Of the man, woman, man relationship spreading more of its festering righteousness all over our light.
Of the shadows cast in its plight, to populate our world.
Of our way to do our part, and take down two fuck-makers, and settle, picking up the pieces left behind.
Of the way to gaiety, happiness that is.
Of the self interested narration of the story in this nation, our tumultuous hibernation.
Of the embedded realization: the politics have entered your bedroom.
Of my cold and brittle handshake, saying bye, you’re getting too close, and my heart is turned to low, on simmer, and I’m gonna sit and stew, on you..
Of your bitter understanding, that I’m in love…with me. And I don’t share.
And we laughed at the ridicuality of the sitch. And we swam in our follies.
The baffled kings throw curiosity from their thrones, And we laughed.
Beauty waned in Chicago, and I was off to Toledo, Ohio,
Where the marble arches are gutted and glued.
Uneven pavement plays tricks with my balance, and the holy Toledo,
Drew a breath and blew; hot, aspirated air stings my eyelids forced,
And in the squints I saw the light. Cold and bitter, I slept alone and dreamt or dreamed if you prefer
Of becoming an angel, too cool for wings though,
And dressed in my slaughtered skin leather jacket, fag in one hand and torch in another
I stood in the street, Halsted and Belmont, and took it all in.
Wooly and warm, I took to the corners of Collingwood and Monroe
Tea tipped and pouring, over the rim, white porcelain patterned cups, mollify but a few drops,
Throwing the rest all over. I took it all in.
Too cool to show it hurt, I leaned back and smiled.
Of that balance tipped hammock, netted and tied to two trees
Of the Buckman bridge, connecting the lands between Jacksonville Fla and Jacksonville Fla
Of the street-smart smoking’ trick, meticulously looking for his pick to pay for his fix,
And then he does. Of the train track memory taking me back to the days of wine and roses.
Of that transitory glint flickering in the room, bombshell casings littered my feet as I tread smoothly forward in a curious manner, placating my passions of intensity.
Of that boy in the brush, cowering from imaginary thorns encasing his body.
Of the luke warm kisses shared with boys of all backgrounds, mendicants and coal miners.
Of the toothy smiles gawking from girls of a different candor.
Of how you made me wet dripping soaked in passionate splendor.
How you stole my head and hid it in the treaties of nations, and the harbors of patience. How you took my limbs and shoved them neath bedpost and bureau, drawer after drawer, you stuffed me among your things, and then I was among your things, and I was yours.
I dreamt, or dreamed if you prefer, of that organic nucleus that once is and forever known as love,
And I think damn, ‘cause the fucked up part is - is that I need it just as much as you do.

Call This an Exposition of the Soul

Mummified follies scantly clad,
dance.
Harlot seashell abstain
sustenance swell mediocrity delight.
Faggot-worn

and insofar rubber tight seals
forthwith to cosmic priestly furrows. Again,
night embraced
fuck
love drunk
amongst rabbit bits that
hungry children cast bountifully
across rivers. Mantras mollify among peacock pears.

A chance to swim in dreamscaped wonderlands.


Too real, I mused,
canoe tipped hems, hanging threads
of blue dew, Dorian Gray sex makers,
through redheaded streets iced for: beauty, truth, twins.